"Gunner!" he whispered, amiable but hoarse. "Thought you were somewhere around Jupe. What'll it be?"
"It'll be nothing right now," Nolan said. "I thought Petersen might be here. I want to see him."
"Oh, sure," the bartender said. "He's dealin' red-dog at one o' the tables in the back."
Nolan was called "Gunner" by those who knew him by his alias—He'd never taken the trouble to think up a first name for "Matthews." He nodded and stepped away.
It wasn't hard to find Petersen when you knew his habits. The wrinkled little man always sat in the noisiest spot he could find. This time it was a table right behind the four-piece orchestra, pride of the proprietor's heart.
Nolan stood silently for a moment behind the little man's chair to watch the play. He marveled at the ease with which Petersen's gnarled fingers handled the flying pasteboards. As usual, Petersen's pile of chips was low, and the set of his back was discouraged.
Nolan grinned. It was part of Petersen's stock-in-trade to look like the tail end of a losing streak. The sucker trade stays away from a winning gambler. But they flocked to Petersen—and his pockets were always clinking.
Petersen's gambler's sixth sense was functioning. He twitched his shoulders uncomfortably, then turned around, glaring up. "Say," he began, "who the hell are—Oh, Gunner!"
Nolan nodded. "Hey there, Peter," he said.
Petersen grinned and blinked. He looked with regret at his top card, then at Nolan. "No?" he asked wistfully.